


Black Pudding

by LateStarter58



Series: Theme and Variations: Tom and Livvy into the future [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 22:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Livvy has been away on assignment for her new job, and Tom wants to welcome her home with a special meal.No pudding has been hurt in the writing of this story





	Black Pudding

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a fan fic called An Opera in Five Acts a few years ago, about Tom meeting a grieving former singer called Olivia Jackson. I ended up extending, rewriting and converting it into a novel for publication on Amazon Kindle, so I don't intend on posting the original version here. But I thought that I would, in fact, post the the further adventures of Tom and Livvy....so here goes.

I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time since we landed. We were making our weary way to the long-term car park. I repeated my mantra silently: _Not long now. Soon we will be together again._

Tom and I had been apart for much longer periods, of course we had, but this was the first time I had been away like this, right over to the other side of the world, without him. The first time my job had parted us like this since we finally became a couple. I had missed him terribly, irrationally.

I was focused on him completely when, as we walked through the rows of cars I spotted something sleek and lovely up ahead.

‘ _This_ is your car, Martin?’ I tried really hard to keep the lust out of my voice. An E-Type. A perfect, _dark blue bloody E-Type Jag… Oh god. I. WANT. IT_. I restrained myself from rubbing against the shiny bodywork obscenely. Just.

My new colleague nodded proudly as he opened the tiny boot and squeezed our (fortunately) small carry-on bags in. Tom had been able to drive me to Heathrow when we left for Tokyo four days ago, but Martin – whom I had come to love dearly – was kind enough to offer me a lift back as he lives not far from us, in Hampstead. So I had no idea until that moment that he owned what is, basically, my dream car. I quite like modern cars, I love Italian classics (I am a sucker for an old Alfa…) but oh my, there is something about an E-Type…

I blame my darling Dad. He has always been a Jaguar man, long before he could actually afford one of his own. Being the only child, I was taken to car museums and collections, watched TV documentaries with him, and read the books and looked at the pictures he had in his study. As a result, by the age of six I had decided I would own a dark blue E-Type when I grew up.

I am still waiting, but now that particular dream feels less important than other things to me. Like Tom and our life together. And music, and my career, which has just had a big boost, thanks to Aunty Beeb…

I wouldn’t mind one though, maybe; one day… and seeing Martin’s beautiful lady had reminded me how much.

She started first time and soon we were off, heading to town and home.

I was so pleased to be back home in London. Japan was wonderful, exciting; exotic. And what an honour to be sent on such a great assignment by the BBC. But after four days apart from Tom and over twelve hours on the plane I was desperate just to hold him.

**_< Good flight love?>_ **

**_< OK. What’s cooking?> _ **

I’d been promised a treat, a home-cooked meal that didn’t involve miso or rice. Tom’s a good cook, but sometimes a little – how can I put this without sounding condescending? - over-ambitious. He tells me he has gone for long periods in recent years only making himself breakfast smoothies and toast, so when he has the chance to prepare a proper meal he gets carried away; over-excited. It’s one of his ‘things’, getting over-excited. Not a fault, not a virtue, simply part of who he is. And I love it, but I was just a teeny bit worried about what I would find.

**_< Surprise xx>_ **

I smiled and put the phone away, forgetting my unease and settling a little more into the comfy leather seat. The Jag had a lovely old-car smell: leather and chrome and warming metal, and the sound of the four-litre, straight-six engine was lulling me. Before I knew it, someone was tapping me gently on the arm.

‘This is where you get out, Olivia.’

I shook myself awake. ‘Oh I’m so sorry, Martin! I fell asleep? How rude of me!’

He was charming and accepted my apologies, driving off in the dream machine with a cheery wave. I was puzzled that Tom hadn’t already opened the door but I walked up the path and rang the bell: I had no keys with me. There was a bit of a delay and then I heard his footsteps.

‘Oh Livvy!’ I was gathered into his long arms and lifted off my feet. Our lips met and I remembered how much I loved him – as if I could ever forget. Then something else intruded into my consciousness: there was an acrid smell coming from the direction of the kitchen. As I was put gently back on my feet I looked at my beautiful man. His hair was sticking up at all angles: it looked as if he might have run not-so-clean fingers through his short curls. There were traces of flour and chocolate there and on his cheeks…

‘What _have_ you been up to, Thomas?’

He looked embarrassed. ‘Well,’ he started, ‘I wanted to do you a lovely welcoming dinner, you know, and I’ve made a Lancashire Hot-Pot, and that seems fine, smells good, but, well,’ he shifted, glancing towards the source of the burning smell, ‘I tried to make my mum’s chocolate cake for pudding, and I think I got the measurements wrong or something. It’s just a burnt mess.’ His hands went to his hair.

_Ah yes, that’s how come it looks that way_

I pushed past him and went into the kitchen. It was in quite a good state of tidiness, contrary to my expectations; better than the cook anyway. But sure enough, on the worktop next to the cooker was my best cake tin and in it was something that resembled a tar-pit.

_Oh dear_

I poked at the lava with a spoon. ‘I wonder what went wrong, darling. It looks as if there is way too much sugar in it. Did you weigh the ingredients carefully?’

‘Weigh? No. Mum never does. I did what she does, just used spoonfuls of things.’

_Oh dear_

‘Your mum has been baking for forty years, Thomas. Mine rarely weighs anything either, but they know what they are doing, love. Baking, well it’s not just an art, it’s a science, you know. Too much sugar; I’ll bet that’s it.’

Tom flopped down into a chair at the little breakfast table, looking crestfallen. ‘Bugger! I wanted everything to be really special, after your trip. I wanted to show you I could cook you a lovely meal.’ He was pouting now.

I tried not to smile, but he looked so sweet and vulnerable, so I decided on distraction tactics and walked over to him, sliding onto his lap. I cupped his cheek and kissed the corner of his mouth, and lapped at the stains on his skin.

‘Mmmmm, chocolate… Got any of that left?’

He smiled, perking up. ‘Some. What have you got in mind?’

‘Well, I see there are strawberries over there, and I was thinking, maybe, that dipping said fruit in melted chocolate might make a nice dessert…’

‘ _First_ dessert,’ he corrected, kissing me again.


End file.
